Covert glances ’neath the drooping lash
Like Cupid’s arrows in an artful quiver—
She is this and much beside,
Which to tell in detail would be rash
By any but the beggar to the giver.
If I gathered, if she gave,
I could put it better into art,
By countless little charming things elated—
Silken tresses in a wave,
Cheek with stolen pigment from the heart,